blunt nose, and prognathous jaw gave the dead man a singularly
simious and ape-like appearance, which was increased by his writhing,
unnatural posture. I have seen death in many forms, but never has it
appeared to me in a more fearsome aspect than in that dark grimy
apartment, which looked out upon one of the main arteries of suburban
London.
Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was standing by the doorway,
and greeted my companion and myself.
"This case will make a stir, sir," he remarked. "It beats anything I
have seen, and I am no chicken."
"There is no clue?" said Gregson.
"None at all," chimed in Lestrade.
Sherlock Holmes approached the body, and, kneeling down, examined it
intently. "You are sure that there is no wound?" he asked, pointing
to numerous gouts and splashes of blood which lay all round.
"Positive!" cried both detectives.
"Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second
individual--presumably the murderer, if murder has been committed. It
reminds me of the circumstances attendant on the death of Van Jansen,
in Utrecht, in the year '34. Do you remember the case, Gregson?"
"No, sir."
"Read it up--you really should. There is nothing new under the sun.
It has all been done before."
As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and
everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while his eyes
wore the same far-away expression which I have already remarked upon.
So swiftly was the examination made, that one would hardly have
guessed the minuteness with which it was conducted. Finally, he
sniffed the dead man's lips, and then glanced at the soles of his
patent leather boots.
"He has not been moved at all?" he asked.
"No more than was necessary for the purposes of our examination."
"You can take him to the mortuary now," he said. "There is nothing
more to be learned."
Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand. At his call they
entered the room, and the stranger was lifted and carried out. As
they raised him, a ring tinkled down and rolled across the floor.
Lestrade grabbed it up and stared at it with mystified eyes.
"There's been a woman here," he cried. "It's a woman's wedding-ring."
He held it out, as he spoke, upon the palm of his hand. We all
gathered round him and gazed at it. There could be no doubt that that
circlet of plain gold had once adorned the finger of a bride.
"This complicates matters," said Gregson. "Heaven knows, they were
complicated enough before."
"You're sure it doesn't simplify them?" observed Holmes. "There's
nothing to be learned by staring at it. What did you find in his
pockets?"
"We have it all here," said Gregson, pointing to a litter of objects
upon one of the bottom steps of the stairs. "A gold watch, No. 97163,
by Barraud, of London. Gold Albert chain, very heavy and solid. Gold
ring, with masonic device. Gold pin--bull-dog's head, with rubies as
eyes. Russian leather card-case, with cards of Enoch J. Drebber of
Cleveland, corresponding with the E. J. D. upon the linen. No purse,
but loose money to the extent of seven pounds thirteen. Pocket
edition of Boccaccio's 'Decameron,' with name of Joseph Stangerson
upon the fly-leaf. Two letters--one addressed to E. J. Drebber and
one to Joseph Stangerson."
"At what address?"
"American Exchange, Strand--to be left till called for. They are both
from the Guion Steamship Company, and refer to the sailing of their
boats from Liverpool. It is clear that this unfortunate man was about
to return to New York."
"Have you made any inquiries as to this man, Stangerson?"
"I did it at once, sir," said Gregson. "I have had advertisements
sent to all the newspapers, and one of my men has gone to the
American Exchange, but he has not returned yet."
"Have you sent to Cleveland?"
"We telegraphed this morning."
"How did you word your inquiries?"
"We simply detailed the circumstances, and said that we should be
glad of any information which could help us."
"You did not ask for particulars on any point which appeared to you
to be crucial?"
"I asked about Stangerson."
"Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which this whole case
appears to hinge? Will you not telegraph again?"
"I have said all I have to say," said Gregson, in an offended voice.
Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself, and appeared to be about to make
some remark, when Lestrade, who had been in the front room while we
were holding this conversation in the hall, reappeared upon the
scene, rubbing his hands in a pompous and self-satisfied manner.
"Mr. Gregson," he said, "I have just made a discovery of the highest
importance, and one which would have been overlooked had I not made a
careful examination of the walls."
The little man's eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was evidently in a
state of suppressed exultation at having scored a point against his
colleague.
"Come here," he said, bustling back into the room, the atmosphere of
which felt clearer since the removal of its ghastly inmate. "Now,
stand there!"
He struck a match on his boot and held it up against the wall.
"Look at that!" he said, triumphantly.
I have remarked that the paper had fallen away in parts. In this
particular corner of the room a large piece had peeled off, leaving a
yellow square of coarse plastering. Across this bare space there was
scrawled in blood-red letters a single word--
RACHE.
"What do you think of that?" cried the detective, with the air of a
showman exhibiting his show. "This was overlooked because it was in
the darkest corner of the room, and no one thought of looking there.
The murderer has written it with his or her own blood. See this smear
where it has trickled down the wall! That disposes of the idea of
suicide anyhow. Why was that corner chosen to write it on? I will
tell you. See that candle on the mantelpiece. It was lit at the time,
and if it was lit this corner would be the brightest instead of the
darkest portion of the wall."
"And what does it mean now that you have found it?" asked Gregson in
a depreciatory voice.
"Mean? Why, it means that the writer was going to put the female name
Rachel, but was disturbed before he or she had time to finish. You
mark my words, when this case comes to be cleared up you will find
that a woman named Rachel has something to do with it. It's all very
well for you to laugh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You may be very smart and
clever, but the old hound is the best, when all is said and done."
"I really beg your pardon!" said my companion, who had ruffled the
little man's temper by bursting into an explosion of laughter. "You
certainly have the credit of being the first of us to find this out,
and, as you say, it bears every mark of having been written by the
other participant in last night's mystery. I have not had time to
examine this room yet, but with your permission I shall do so now."
As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round magnifying
glass from his pocket. With these two implements he trotted
noiselessly about the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally
kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face. So engrossed was he with
his occupation that he appeared to have forgotten our presence, for
he chattered away to himself under his breath the whole time, keeping
up a running fire of exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries
suggestive of encouragement and of hope. As I watched him I was
irresistibly reminded of a pure-blooded well-trained foxhound as it
dashes backwards and forwards through the covert, whining in its
eagerness, until it comes across the lost scent. For twenty minutes
or more he continued his researches, measuring with the most exact
care the distance between marks which were entirely invisible to me,
and occasionally applying his tape to the walls in an equally
incomprehensible manner. In one place he gathered up very carefully a
little pile of grey dust from the floor, and packed it away in an
envelope. Finally, he examined with his glass the word upon the wall,
going over every letter of it with the most minute exactness. This
done, he appeared to be satisfied, for he replaced his tape and his
glass in his pocket.
"They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains," he
remarked with a smile. "It's a very bad definition, but it does apply
to detective work."
Gregson and Lestrade had watched the manoeuvres of their amateur
companion with considerable curiosity and some contempt. They
evidently failed to appreciate the fact, which I had begun to
realize, that Sherlock Holmes' smallest actions were all directed
towards some definite and practical end.
"What do you think of it, sir?" they both asked.
"It would be robbing you of the credit of the case if I was to
presume to help you," remarked my friend. "You are doing so well now
that it would be a pity for anyone to interfere." There was a world
of sarcasm in his voice as he spoke. "If you will let me know how
your investigations go," he continued, "I shall be happy to give you
any help I can. In the meantime I should like to speak to the
constable who found the body. Can you give me his name and address?"
Lestrade glanced at his note-book. "John Rance," he said. "He is off
duty now. You will find him at 46, Audley Court, Kennington Park
Gate."
Holmes took a note of the address.
"Come along, Doctor," he said; "we shall go and look him up. I'll
tell you one thing which may help you in the case," he continued,
turning to the two detectives. "There has been murder done, and the
murderer was a man. He was more than six feet high, was in the prime
of life, had small feet for his height, wore coarse, square-toed
boots and smoked a Trichinopoly cigar. He came here with his victim
in a four-wheeled cab, which was drawn by a horse with three old
shoes and one new one on his off fore leg. In all probability the
murderer had a florid face, and the finger-nails of his right hand
were remarkably long. These are only a few indications, but they may
assist you."
Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with an incredulous smile.
"If this man was murdered, how was it done?" asked the former.
"Poison," said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode off. "One other
thing, Lestrade," he added, turning round at the door: "'Rache,' is
the German for 'revenge;' so don't lose your time looking for Miss
Rachel."
With which Parthian shot he walked away, leaving the two rivals
open-mouthed behind him.
CHAPTER IV
What John Rance Had To Tell
It was one o'clock when we left No. 3, Lauriston Gardens. Sherlock
Holmes led me to the nearest telegraph office, whence he dispatched a
long telegram. He then hailed a cab, and ordered the driver to take
us to the address given us by Lestrade.
"There is nothing like first hand evidence," he remarked; "as a
matter of fact, my mind is entirely made up upon the case, but still
we may as well learn all that is to be learned."
"You amaze me, Holmes," said I. "Surely you are not as sure as you
pretend to be of all those particulars which you gave."
"There's no room for a mistake," he answered. "The very first thing
which I observed on arriving there was that a cab had made two ruts
with its wheels close to the curb. Now, up to last night, we have had
no rain for a week, so that those wheels which left such a deep
impression must have been there during the night. There were the
marks of the horse's hoofs, too, the outline of one of which was far
more clearly cut than that of the other three, showing that that was
a new shoe. Since the cab was there after the rain began, and was not
there at any time during the morning--I have Gregson's word for
that--it follows that it must have been there during the night, and,
therefore, that it brought those two individuals to the house."
"That seems simple enough," said I; "but how about the other man's
height?"
"Why, the height of a man, in nine cases out of ten, can be told from
the length of his stride. It is a simple calculation enough, though
there is no use my boring you with figures. I had this fellow's
stride both on the clay outside and on the dust within. Then I had a
way of checking my calculation. When a man writes on a wall, his
instinct leads him to write about the level of his own eyes. Now that
writing was just over six feet from the ground. It was child's play."
